


Won't Unwind

by Krytella



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation, Projections, Voyeurism, mmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krytella/pseuds/Krytella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames wonders if Arthur actually does get himself off. His<br/>subconscious tries to provide an answer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Unwind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Merry Month of Masturbation](http://mmom.livejournal.com/) 2011, after a prompt from [ilovetakahana](http://ilovetakahana.livejournal.com/). Beta'd by [anatsuno](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/).

Eames' projections have always been... interesting. They're not unusually violent towards intruders, just unusually interactive. People tend to give him disturbed looks after waking from his subconscious. Usually they won't tell him why. This doesn't surprise Eames; he likes putting people off balance, so it follows that his projections do as well.

He's the only dreamer today, wearing a professional basketball player on the subject's team. He strips in front of the full length mirror, checking to make sure he's got every detail he can. He likes to know what's under his clothes even if no one else is going to see. It's a nicer body than he usually gets to imitate. He's tempted to jack off to this image, right here in front of the mirror, and if he wasn't busy with work he would, but he does have some sense of professionalism. Arthur might argue with you on that, but Eames would say that Arthur should loosen up a little. Sometimes he wonders if Arthur ever does, if he ever takes off his work persona and has fun, but... that way lies distraction.

Eames (or Devon, if he's being pedantic about getting into character) puts his clothes back on and goes out, to practice. He wanders through bustling streets and then into a basement, hot and crowded with projections busy drinking and gambling. Eames gets a drink for himself and looks out over the crowd, thinking of how this man moves. He is literally looking over the crowd, his six and a half feet giving him a new point of view.

Most of the projections aren't people Eames consciously knows, just a jumble of faces from cities the world over. He notices only one truly familiar face: Arthur, silently observing from a seat in the corner. Arthur's eyes slide over him when he looks in Eames' direction. So this projection either doesn't care to acknowledge Eames' existence, or wants to pretend he doesn't. It's unusual. Which is why Eames follows him up the cramped staircase, through a few blocks of light rain, and into a glassy residential tower. Eames isn't an architect, and the buildings of his undesigned dreams tend to be a little indistinct, no fancy paradoxes nor soaring modern skyscrapers, but apparently, he thinks that this is the kind of place where Arthur would live. He follows Arthur into the elevator, up to the 31st floor then into an apartment. Arthur still acts like he can't see Eames. Maybe this projection can't. Minds are strange and unpredictable things, still, even for those who make a living mucking about inside them.

Arthur takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet. If this was the real Arthur, he'd be wearing a waistcoat in the dream, but he's Eames' projection of the topside version of Arthur: formal, yes, but not that formal. He pulls off his tie, too, rolls up his sleeves, then sinks down on the couch.

Eames wonders what he came up here to see. His own subconscious' ideas of what a business associate does in his free time? Arthur's just sitting there, relaxed, eyes closed. Lost in thought.

He starts to unbutton his shirt.

Eames has an idea, now, of where his mind is going, and by extension, the mind of this projection. Arthur doesn't take the shirt off, just leaves it hanging on his shoulders. Then he presses a hand to his cock, rubbing it through his trousers. This is going to be interesting.

He wants to see all of Arthur, but it doesn't work that way, more's the pity. No one has conscious control over their projections. So Eames has to wait for this Arthur to unbutton his trousers, ever so slowly, for him to pull down the zip with careful fingers. Arthur has nice hands. This at least is real. Eames spent loads of time watching these hands pulling a trigger or picking a lock.

When Arthur pushes down his pants, Eames reminds himself that the cock he exposes isn't real. It's thick and curves slightly to the left. Uncircumcised, which is statistically unlikely for an American of his age, but Eames isn't surprised that his subconscious would go with what it knows.

Arthur touches himself slowly at first. His eyes slide closed again, and he looks lost in sensation. Lost in himself. He stays like that for a minute, but Eames is watching closely enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, see his breathing speed up as the seconds tick by. Arthur's left hand is resting on his thigh, edging closer and closer until he stops everything to pull his trousers down, lifting his hips off the couch so he can slide them off his arse. He gets them just that far and then his right hand darts back to its previous task.

He's moving the left one around, now, up the soft skin of the inside of his thigh, cupping his balls, pushing two fingers against the sensitive spot behind them. His other hand speeds up, slipping higher over the head of his dick.

Eames steps closer, closer, until he's standing next to the couch and looking straight down. Arthur still doesn't react to his presence. Eames imagines he can see Arthur's pulse, beating fast in his throat. He's close enough to hear him breathing now, and he knows he's not imagining that, the harsh gasps as his body tenses. Arthur's abs are tightening, bunching beneath his skin. Eames may be breathing hard himself, but who could blame him? He stares, rapt, at the head of Arthur's cock, wet with pre-come, appearing and disappearing from the circle of his fist.

Eames sits on the arm of the couch. It brings Arthur's face closer, close enough to notice the sweat on his face, his eyes scrunched up as if in pain, his mouth falling open. His right hand is moving furiously now, his left clenched around the root as if he wants to come but is trying to hold off. He tucks his chin against his chest as though looking down at himself but his eyes are still shut. His breath is coming in sharp gasps, his chest fluttering. Even through his trousers Eames can see his strong thighs tensing, shaking with the urgency of his arousal. But Arthur holds on, and Eames wonders how long he can hold himself off, how long he can stand it.

Finally Arthur relaxes his grip, moves that hand to tug on his balls, and Eames tries to take everything in as he comes: his low moan, his head snapping back to expose his long throat, his back arching off the couch, his hand pumping as come spatters across his belly. It's the hottest thing Eames has dreamed in quite some time, and he wasn't even participating.

Arthur sinks back into the couch, shivers subsiding slowly. He just sprawls there for a minute and Eames watches his chest rise and fall as his breathing eases, as relaxation steals through his body and destroys every vestige of the professional poise that Eames is so used to seeing in waking life. He watches as that Arthur gets replaced with a different person, one with sweat making a trail down from his collarbone, one who doesn't care about his open shirt and his trousers around his knees, about the come starting to dry on his hand.

On the next breath Eames opens his eyes on a different couch, some horrible pistachio-green thing they picked up off a curb for the workspace when the extractor complained about the crick in his neck from sleeping in folding chairs. Arthur, the real Arthur, is balancing on the back legs of one of those chairs, a stack of papers in one hand and a highlighter in the other.

“How's it going?” he asks idly, not looking up. It's creepy how he does that.

“Oh, this one will be fine. Getting some real insights.”

He's not lying.


End file.
